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Copijriqhted b\j Mai Rose 
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Enchanting 

PdthlPdUS 



1 



Other 5ooks by the Author of 
Enchanting Palhiuays: 

Four Leaf Clouers Jingle-ology 

Listen To Me Q*cink Toiun Tunes 



Chum or two let's take a-jaunting 

Where the best of chums would go; 
Tried and true, and found not wanting — 

Just such chums you've had, I know. 
"Hey there, Chuck and Tobe and Skinny, 

Join us in our good-luck song — 
Fish for whales and catch a 'minny' — 

Ask yer maws, and come along." 

Home-spun garb with threadbare patching- 
Hearts in rhyme with all glad things; 

Eyes and ears alert for catching- 
Tune with woodland wilds and wings. 

Round the hill and up and over; 
Down the slope beyond the ridge; 

Passed the meadow's honeyed clover. 
To the brookside and the bridge. 

Out with boy-made fishing-tackle, 

For a try at yonder bend; 
While the cook-fire faggots crackle. 

And the smoke-ring curls ascend. 
Near the hedge, the wild-rose blushes, 

Daisies smile and thistles sway; 
Clarion orioles and thrushes 

Sing a thousand songs a day. 

And the pranks of shag-dog Rover, 

With his bow-wow monolog — 
Search the big, wide world all over — 

What's so playful as a dog? 
Something joyously compelling. 

When he bounds, and wags his tail — 
"Ain't w^orth nothin' much, fer sellin' ," 

But of course he's not for sale. 



Fresh clear pool invites attention. 

Wide and deep? Who cares a whiz? 
Bathing suits too scant to mention. 

"Last one in knows what he is." 
Rudely startled from his napping 

In the shadows, cool and soft; 
Tall vvnite crane, with wings a-flapping, 

Lifts himself and floats aloft. 

Over-head the big sky str,etches — 

Cloud-ships sail the placid blue. 
Great hawk glides in circle-sketchjes ; 

Turns and circles out of view. 
Here, a turtle-dove is crooning; 

There, a rain-crow twangs his lute; 
Bob-white sets his pipe a-tuning. 

And the owl says, "hoot, hoot, hoot!" 

Summer fades and skies grow duller; 

Autumn sun hangs red and low. 
Casting myriads of color. 

In a maze of amber-glow. 
Never was a sage so thorough 

In the lore of learned art. 
As the lad who carves a furrow, 

Through a melon's crimson heart. 

Schoolbells ring. 'Tis tim^ for studies. 

Time for charts and spelling bees; 
Matching wits with class-room buddies; 

Minding tricky Qs and Ps. 
Just what honors will we quit with. 

When a tussle shall occur? 
Wonder who we'll have to sit with. 

Goodness, what if it be 'her'? 



'Her!' Ah me! The very mention, 

Turns a boy's heart top-side down; 
Lifts him high, in sweet ascension, 

Wafts him off to dreamy-town. 
Ch^erry lips and cheeks as ruddy; 

Every curl, a flaxen spool — 
Glory be! Who wouldn't study, 

Side by side with her, in school? 

Winter comes! The west wind whistles! 

Boyhood whistles even more! 
What cares he for snowflake missiles? 

In his thoughts no blizzards roar. 
Jolly fun is bobsled hopping. 

To the tune of jingle-bells; 
Caps awry, and mittens flopping. 

Merry shouts and whoops and yells! 

Jack Frost makes som,e dandy sketches, 

With the dazzling ice and snow, 
AVhere the crystal landscape stretches, 

Like a great, white studio. 
"Hey th^re. Chuck and Tobe and Skinny, 

Come a-runnin' double-quick! 
Back you to a game of shinny; 

See! There's skatin' on the crick!" 

Let's skate up to the pebbl,e-ferry — 

What's a mile, or two, or three? 
"Forward, if you aint too scarey! 

Fall in line and f oiler me!" 
Round and round the bends go winding 

Lik^ an endless silver thread — 
On we glide, yet always finding 

One more luring turn, ahead. 



Nightfall comes, and comes a-stealing — 
Shadows darting through the trees, 

Bring a kind of creepy feeling, 
Up around a fellow's kn^ees. 

Far from home and sweet-voiced mother- 
Big black night a-closing in — 

"Histl Stick close to one another. 
Turn around, and skate like sin!" 

Who's that sneaking up behind us, 

Gaining, gaining every hitch? 
Can the evil spirits find us, 

On a night that's dark as pitch? 
What's that looming up, off yonder, 

Like a great, grey, silver loon? 
Have the spooks come forth, to wander? 

Bless us, no! Why, that's th^e moon! 

One more bend, and passed the ledges 

Up the bank, and skip for home. 
Vowing silent, inward pledges, 

Never more to thusly roam. 
Then we swarm the supper table, 

Raisin-cakes and frosted creams; 
And we're off to slumber-gable. 

There to dream more wonder dreams. 

Dreams of kings and knighthood cronies. 

Fairy queens and dimpled maids, 
Diawn by sleek and splendid ponies, 

Through fantastic fairy-glades. 
Dreams of clowns and jesters, grinny, 

Di.eams of dancing imps and eivcF^; 
And of Chuck and Tobe and Skinny, 

Home and mother, and ourselves. 



Later years grow stern and sordid — 

Selfishness comes creeping in; 
And Wje dream of glitter, hoarded, 

And of fame we hope to win. 
But, at best, we deal in guesses — 

Luck can frown as well as smile — 
So, in marble-time successes 

Com,e the triumphs most worth while. 

Dreams come true before the dreaming. 

In the rhapsodies of dawTi; 
And the real is like the seeming. 

While the lisp of youth is on; 
And there's warmth and comfort waiting, 

And the feasts are fit for kings; 
And there's loV|e and perfect mating. 

In the childhood charm of things. 

So, the while we toil and travel, 

On the age-old ruts of strife, 
Hoping, someday, to unravel 

The perplexities of life, 
May the Prince of Pure Endeavor 

Guard these few, glad haunts of mine; 
Letting boyhood trail forever 

Wher,e enchanting pathways twine. 



JPals n' g'ltrtu^timi* 



Springtime tun,elets come a liltin' 

To my winter-wearied ear, 
As the snow-man leans a tiltin' 

In the sun-light warm and clear, 
And although I'm half a-sobbin' 

That my grinnin' friend must go, 
Still I'd rather see a robin, 

Than all oth^er things, I know. 

Sure his song is never counted 

By the critics of the lute. 
Nor his blow-pipe, silver mounted 

Like a cage-canary's flute. 
But he chirps a chirp that thrills me — 

Bless the ruggjed little elf — 
Till its music so instills me, 

I could sing a bit myself. 

Glory, but I hope he'll get here, 

While my snow-man friend is fine; 
Fifty times they've almost met her,e, 

And they're such good pals o' mine. 
Wouldn't it seem strangely jolly, 

If those two could stage a show, 
Out there where the hail-stones voll^ey, 

And the southland breezes blow. 

So I'm waitin' for him daily, 

And I swear I'll see him first; 
And I'll gre,et him loud and gaily. 

Or I'll bust — or I mean burst — 
For he's not afraid o' w^eather. 

Nor o' me, nor anything, 
When he comes with chirp and feather, 

Just two jumps ahead o' Spring. 



®n a Hau&^ltoii 

Dandelion of brightest yellow, 

PraiS|e to your unhaloed brow! 
Most persistent little fellow, 

I admire you, anyhow. 
Midnight's dazzling constellation, 

Dropped to earth, at break of mom; 
While, in unappreciation 

Mortals frown at you with scorn! 

Sunlight wakes you from your slumbers, 

Glad to see your smiling gaz,e; 
Then, your hosts, in legion numbers, 

Fairly set the world ablaze. 
After which, some puffing, panting 

Pirate seeks your saffron head; 
But you'l still go gallivanting. 

When such vandals all are dead. 

Foes and strangers bring no terror 

To your fearless heart, I know — 
Cheerful little banner-bearer — 

So I've stopped to say 'hello! 
Wish I knew your inmost thinking. 

Knew your courage secrets, too; 
For I need some sort of linking. 

To a cheerful chap like you. 

Blithe content for trouble-tangles. 

Glad when revelry is rife. 
Trumpeter in fan-fare spangles, 

Heralding the joys of life! 
Why disfavor hangs above you, 

Dandelion I can't respond; 
As for me, I'll always love you 

Laughing little vagabond. 



Mf Uo Slim, Puppil 



Well, well, w,ell, hello there, puppy! 

Bless your little bow-wow soul; 
And you're not a bit stuck-uppy. 

Are you, little wiggle roll? 
Where'd you come from? What about you? 

Is that all you have to do— 
Windin' wiggle-rings about you? 

Tell me, who belongs to you ? 

Are you Fido, Jip or Rover? 
Speak, you cunnin' little elf — 

One ear up and one flopped over- 
Wish I was a pup, myself. 

Fond o' fun, and fat and woolly, 
Round and round a puppy pile— 

Wouldn't it be bully-bully, 
B,ein' pals with you a while? 

Such a tail, well drum my gizzard; 
Not much longer than a thumb! 

Are they always stubby-scissored 
Just like yours, when puppies come? 

What the dickens is ther,e in it, 
Makes it fairly snap and crack? 

Can't you keep it still a minute- 
Say, you saucy jumpin'-jack? 

Eyes alert and all a-twinkle — 

Roguish mug that grins and grins— 
Oozin' fifty funny-wrinkle, 

Monk,ey-shine shenanigans. 
Full o' — ,Hey, you heartless sinner — 

You've been seein' me all wrong — 
I'm no puppy's soup-bone dinn,er! 

Keep those teeth where teeth belong! 



§>url| a iau \b Mint 

Heard the lusty call at dawning, 

Of the cock-a-doodle-do, 
When the eastern mist a-yawning 

Let the gray-glint trickle through. 
Heard the bell-clock's five a-ringing, 

As the big sun flashed its beams, 
And I knew that day was bringing 

Finis to my fleeting dr,eams. 

Heard the red-head's rousing banter, 

Challenging the feathered throng. 
Heard an oriole-enchanter, 

Mimicking the blu,e-bird's song. 
Heard a tiny trill-canary. 

Matching voices with the wren, 
And I turned to making merry 

That the day had come again. 

Saw the spires of distant church,es— 

Saw the roofs of humble cots — 
Saw the box-woods and the birches, 

And the sweet, cool, grassy plots. 
Saw the dandelions of yellow, 

Rush to kiss his baby feet. 
When a chubby little fellow, 

Toddled out, across the street. 

Saw the apple-blossoms dripping 

With the dew, where night had been- 
Saw the honey-bees a-sipping. 

Of the ecstasies within. 
Plucked a rose, and from its fragrance 

Came a quaff of rarest wine; 
And, although I'm of the vagrants, 

Glory, such a day is mine! 



Sunbeam, in my window peepin' — 

Cheerful cherub! Smile o' smiles! 
Far too long have I bjeen sleepin* 

Wastin' dreams on yesterwhiles. 
Pourin' through my humblje shutters, 

Like a mill-race, overflowed — 
Sunbeam, while the north-wind mutters, 

Welcome to my heart's abod^e! 

May I ask whose fine hand forms you — 

Spins you to a thread o' gold — 
And illumes you so, and warms you? 

Are such secrets never told? 
And is there a sunbeam garden. 

Where the sunbeam spinners live? 
But I beg your gracious pardon 

If I'm too inquisitive. 

Tell me whence you com.eth, sunbeam — 

Someone surely sent you here. 
Knowing well that even one b|eam 

Means a mighty lot o' cheer — 
For I've needed you this long-time — 

There are shadows where I dwell — 
So I'm glad to know 'tis song-time. 

And you've come to stay a spell. 

And do sunbeams never worry. 

Never sadden nor despond? 
How those lurkin' imps do scurry 

From your joy-compellin' wand! 
And my dull heart goes a-leapin* 

Till it well-nigh leaps away. 
Sunbeam, when you come a-peepin' 

In my window, here, this day! 



Sitrkg Surk 

Ducky, ducky, ducky duck, 

Round and round the barn-yard trackin', 
Waddlin* through the mire and muck. 

With your honk-pipe quackin', quackin', 
Up and down the shaded lot, 

Where the earth is cool and muddy, 
You're a puzzle, and you're not, 

When your web-foot ways, I study. 

Such a jolly clowii you are — 

Droll and funny as the dickens; 
You have better times, by far, 

Than these fussy turks and chickens. 
While they gobbl^e, crow and cluck, 

Just like cranky men and women, 
You'r,e a happy ducky duck. 

In your puddle-pond, a-swimmin'. 

Come let's hear your honk-pipe blow. 

Like the horn on yonder fliv\^er; 
But don't shake your featli^ers, so. 

For you're wetter than the river. 
You must think these shoes of mine 

Are some sort of barn-yard blotter; 
Don't you dare to spoil my shine. 

With a spray of mud and water. 

Such a swimm,er, sakes alive! 

Puddle-ponds are fine for crossin'! 
Ducky duck let's see you dive 

For this grain of com I'm tossin'. 
That's it! Your're the splashin' kid! 

Never was a sport so jolly. 
Did you get it? Sure you did. 

Got a tadpole, too, by golly! 



iPu^Hg (dat 



Pussy-cat, sleek and fat, 

Sitting on the window sill. 
Calm and meek. Can't you speak? 

Tell me why you keep so still. 
Sharp of claw, tooth and jaw, 

Whiskers long and tail long, too. 
Nod and purr, brush your fur, 

Bother never both,ers you. 

Such a pet, yet I'll bet. 

If I pinch your fuzzy ear. 
You can match scratch for scratch. 

With the wildest jungeleer. 
Blazing .eyes, headlight size. 

Loom like two great balls of fire, 
When you roam, far from home, 

Serenading on your lyre. 

Sleepy-heads in their b,eds, 

Say unkindly things of you. 
Swear and grieve, sometimes heave 

An alarm-clock or a shoe. 
On your fence, ten yards hence, 

What care you for missiles hurled? 
Loud and long, rolls your song, 

'Glory to the midnight world'! 

Pussy-cat, sleek and fat. 

Just one thing I'll say, that's all; 
There's a mouse in this house. 

Hear it yonder in the wall? 
Gracious Grump! Such a jump! 

Swifter than the leopard leaps! 
Well, I Swan! One mouse goiie! 

Yes sir, gone, and gone for ke,eps! 



Tis the spirit, not the lett|er, 

That he has who has a heart. 
Something deeper, sweeter, better, 

Than mere words can well impart. 
Something lasting, something living, 

Ever present, never gone. 
Always ready, always giving, 

Always glad to carry on. 

Something that the human senses. 

Somehow fail to comphehend. 
No one knows where it commences — 

No one trails it to the end. 
Ever mindful of a duty. 

Something big, and fine, and strong. 
Shaped in molds of simple b^eauty — 

Lovely as the day is long. 

Bom of courage, doing, daring — 

Something proud, but not too proud. 
Ray of hope to thoughts despairing — 

Silver-lining to the cloud. 
Something none can buy nor borrow — 

Something all may have, and should- 
Y,esterday, today, tomorrow. 

Mighty impulse, nobly good. 

Something founded on the surest, 

In the sphere of humankind — 
Something mighty near the purest. 

From the realm of soul and mind, 
Som,ething lofty, holy, godly, 

Treasured for its matchless worth — 
Truly heaven-like, yet, oddly. 

Quite the humblest thing on earth. 



A Sing 3Flag 

You see 'iss tiny flag? 
It only cos' a penny; 
I r.eally shouldn't brag- 
But if I hadn't any 
I couldn't eat a bite — 
My conscience wouldn't let me — 
Nor sleep a wink at night, 
For fear the imps would get me. 

I've se^en lots bigger ones, 

On sticks an' poles an' steeples. 

An' hosts o' men wiv guns, 

An' crowds an' crowds o' peoples. 

But, did you know it's true, 

'At little flags have senses, 

Des' like the big ones do, 

When marchin' time commences? 

It's stars are 'most as bright 

As in the blue o' Heaven; 

Six tiny stripes are white, 

An' red ones? S,ee! Dey's seven! 

An' does 'em colors run? 

Not 'les dey's chasin' sumpin', 

Then ev'ry man an' gun, 

Des' goes a double-jumpin'. 



Early &uttiau 

Each motor car that hums along, 

On sunny Sunday morning, 
Speeds gaily passed the pious throng, 

And toots a lively warning. 
Each parson feeling quite alone, 

To pews untaken preach,es. 
Since half his flock has auto-flown 

To cooling woods and beaches. 

Each golf -bag, hammock, pipe and book. 

On board the flivver scrambles, 
To giggle with the gurgling brook. 

Along the stream-side brambl,es. 
Each picnic basket crammed to split. 

With sweet-m^eats, cakes and cheeses, 
Prepares its,elf to lightly flit 

Where fun and fancy pleases. 

Each nimble bullhead, bass and trout, 

Inviting fib and fable, 
Kicks up a splash as though to shout 

'Come catch us if you're able'. 
Each daddy-long-leg, spider, flea. 

Mosquito, bug and cricket, 
Chirps forth a rousing jubilee, 

Where sand-bar meets with thicket. 

Each tiny pebble on the beach 

P.erks up and sings a ditty. 
Which to a dainty Neptune peach 

Means 'welcome to our city*, 
Each bathing suit hung out to dry. 

Tomorrow morning early. 
Tips off a Sabbath's 'where and why' 

For some sweet mermaid girlie. 



Happin^ess, lend me the key to your castle — 

Make me your confidant, comrade and kin. 
Never a spangle, a robe nor a tassel. 

Shall I disturb, if you'll please let me in. 
Show me your crown with its wond,erful 
jewels — 

Open one chest of your gold, to my view. 
Eons and eons, have men met in duels. 

Fighting till death, in the conquest of you. 

Happiness, all of my life you have lured me — 
You knew the yearn of my baby -hood lisp. 
Times beyond number, you've almost as- 
sured me, 
Only to flee, as the will-o'-the-wisp. 
Life's but a moment and moments ar|e fleet- 
ing; 
If you're averse to my coming inside. 
Then let's arrange for clandestinely me,et- 
ing, 
Out where the known and the unknown 
divide. 

Happiness, tell m,e, oh tell me your story 1 
Share me your secret. One s^ecret, that's 
all. 
You whom I've chased to the far-heights of 
Glory, 
Only to loS|e you, and stumble and fall. 
Phantom-like form, oh so strange and en- 
trancy. 
Why are my dreams ever following you? 
End-of-the-rainbow, you puzzle my fancy. 
Answer me, please. Are you fickle or 
true ? 

1 have been told that you're right here be- 
side m,e. 



Eager to serve when 1 bid you appear. 
Aft^erward, never one hope is denied me, 

If such a hope be devout and sincere. 
'Counting my blessings; discounting my 
sorrows', 

That is the secret of secrets, you say? 
Happiness, fanciful myth of the morrows, 

H,ere in my heart I have found you, today. 



Oh seekers, searching, searching all the 
while. 
For tiny flaws that lurk in living gjems; 
Seeing in the rosebud's pretty smile, 
The sharp, forbidding frown of thorny 
stems; 
Oh the pain and anguish that it brings 
Unto your saddened souls- — perhaps it 
should — 
For he who thinks but ill and evil things, 
Can never know the vvhol'^some joy of 
good I 

Oh searchers, seeking, seeking jeweled 
hearts — 
The genuine and flawless, pure and sweiet; 
Masters of a hundred pleasing arts 

Unfold their many wonders at your feet; 
And, oh the peace and ecstasy it brings 
Unto your gladdened souls — and well it 
should; 
For he who thinks no ill nor jevil things. 
Can ever know the wholesome joy of 
good! 



00 iFatli^r 

Speak a gentle word to father, 

Now and then, and paus^e to chat; 
True, he is a dreadful bother 

Oftentimes, but what o' that? 
You a struttin' round and braggin' 

0' the thousand things you've done — 
Wasn't he a good old wagon. 

When you kind o' needed one? 

He has feelin' and emotions. 

Just like human-bein* folks; 
Maybe whims and funny notions, 

'Bout that big black pipe he smokes. 
Just be glad the dear old feller. 

Finds the puff -pipe joy he gets; 
And not chase him off down cellar. 

Don't you like your cigarets? 

And when comp'ny comes for dinner, 

Let his blund,ers lightly pass. 
Once you was a rank beginner. 

In the soup and salad class. 
Napkin tucked inside his collar — 

Feelin' proud to be your dad — 
He's a gent and he's a scholar. 

For the kind o' chance he's had. 

Like as not he got his schoolin', 

Hoppin' clods behind the plow; 
With no college book-o'-rulin'. 

Like you wise-ones study now. 
And while you go idly roamin'. 

Through your realm o' dreamy dawn. 
Father's slippin' toward th,e gloamin', 

And you'll miss him when he's gone. 



3FatIyer*5 Qlnllar 



Father's collar worries mother 

More than quite a little bit; 
Always, somehow or another, 

He can't seem to make it fit. 
Sure to get it on gee-haw-ways, 

Inside-out or upside-down. 
Hind-side front, or else see-saw-ways, 

Like he was a circus clown. 

Collars they are mad^e for nabobs, 

Dukes and Earls and Plutocrats; 
Just like all those other jaybobs. 

Such as monocles and spats. 
Father's not for bein' formal, 

Fixin' up and showin' off; 
He's for goin' back to normal. 

Like a pig's-foot in the trough. 

Mother has to beg and coax him. 

Just to put it on, at all; 
Father swears th^e blame thing chokes him, 

Like a swallowed rubber ball. 
And she thinks it's almost heathen, 

Goin' collarleFS, all day; 
But he 'lows he'll keep on breathin'. 

In the good old fashioned way. 

"Collars look all right on hors,es," 

Father tells her when he jokes; 
And he grinnin'ly endorses 

Higher ones for women folks. 
And he'd rather pay a dollar. 

Every mornin' noon and night; 
Than to wear that dog-gon^e collar. 

And dress up and be polite. 



Wi^Hx *ti0 Spring 

When 'tis Spring, joyful Spring, 

How the melodies ring, 

How the earth, sea and sky 

Mak,e the clarions sing 

On the soft, floating bre|eze. 

In its sweet, careless ease. 

As it comes from the southland 

Of tempered degr|ees! 

How the tillers of soil — 
Bronzed believers in toil — 
Sing the songs of the field. 
As their furrows uncoil; 
While the warm sunshine floods. 
And the thunder-cloud thuds. 
And the leaves whisper love 
To the sweet, tender buds! 

Everj^ twig, every clod, 
Every mountain, untrod. 
Every cloud, every wave 
Proves the Greatness of God! 
And, in wond,er, I ciy. 
To the earth, sea and sky, 
Oh how mighty art thou, 
And how humble am I! 



(50 a Viitn 

Bless my soul, what a wondjerful song, 

Little wren! 
Big enough for the whole feathered throng, 
Little wren! 

Like a sextett^e of pipers, 

Up there mid the cheri'ies, 

With lusty crescendoes 

And lively air-varies, 

Oh please sing for me 

As you sing for the fairies, 
The whole glad day long, little wren! 

Such a trill for so tiny a throat, 

Little wren! 
Like a flute, every wave, every note, 
Little wren! 

Sing that duo again. 

Where the lovers who part, 

Are united once mor,e — 

Hand in hand, heart to heart — 

Oh the joyous acclaim 

That you bring to your art, 
In your modest, gray coat, little wren! 

When you sing 'Auld Lang Syne' 'tis my 
choice. 
Little wren; 
And in 'Love's Old Sweet Song' I rejoice, 
Little wren; 
And your 'Will o" The Wisp' 
Tells a beautiful story; 
And I am your slave 
When you trill 'Annie Laurie'; 
Ah me, how I'd love 
To bje blest with the glory 
Of oh, such a voice, little wren! 



Uonktttg at Uurk 



Oh Luck do you care 

if I quiz you a little? 
The world's much in doubt as to where 
you belong; 

And some would appeal 

for your stainless acquittal, 
While others accuse and convict you of 
wrong. 

Your life's such a trail 

of mysterious missions — 
So wierd and fantastic and misunderstood, 

It seems you have com|e 

to arouse our suspicions 
As whether your motives are evil or good. 

You've haunted men's dreams, 

like a night-mare of madness — 
They live or they die by the breadth of a 
hair. 

You've lifted their hopes 

to the zenith of gladness, 
And tumbled them down into nadir despair. 

You dictate the weather, 

the laws and the fashions; 
You linger in hiding or gambol amuck. 

You rule our emotions, 

and whim-whams and passions; 
Yet no one commands you, oh merciless 
Luck. 

And what's in your name. 
Does it have a real meaning? 
In what sort of stock was your ancestry 
sprung ? 
From Adam till now, 
all the years intervening. 
You've played with the fortunes of aged 
and young. 



Oh V|ersatile Pegasus, 

what of your gender; 
And how do you travel, by hoof or by wing ? 

If I'm to be known 

as your gallant defender, 
Then are you a person, a place or a thing? 

Swastikas and horse-shoes 
date back to the sphinxes — 
Each leg,endry seems to have paid you its 
bribe. 
And black-cats and Jonahs, 
and Hoodooes and Jinxes, 
In rabbit's-foot parlance belong to your 
tribe. 
The cards and the dic,e 
and the galloping ponies. 
And warfare and riches and romance and 
love — 
The world quite bielieves 
these are all your old cronies, 
Like bosom-companions that go, hand-in- 
glove. 

You frown at a man 
and his heart sinks within him, 
But make it a smile, and his soul leaps 
with joy; 
So, Luck, as you like, 
you may lose him or win him — 
His heart is your pawn and his soul, but a 
toy. 
And losers condemn you 
because of their losses. 
While winners acclaim you a generous 
host; 
Yet all down your trail 
There are more double-crosses. 
Than ev,er I've known of a grave-yard to 
boast. 



A litUg mht 



straddle o' a wagon, 
Lively kickin' feet, 
Happy hearted youngsters 
Rattlin' down the street. 
Merry eyes a dancin*, 
Happy as a clam. 
Gosh, it Sjets me thinkin' 
Just how old I am. 

Overalls with patches, 
Shoes that tell the knocks. 
Caps at saucy angles, 
Perched on flyin' locks. 
Play-mates come a tumblin', 
MeiTy fun is rife; 
Glory be to Goodness, 
That's th,e jolly life! 

Chubby fists a guidin', 
Dodgin' yawny cracks, 
Leavin' for a trail-mark, 
Scores o' wobblin' tracks. 
Round and round tli,e corners, 
Down the hill and up, 
To the boist'rous music 
Of a rag-tag pup. 

Warn me, *Hey, look out there?' 
Sure, ril step aside; 
Ah, I'd pay a ransom 
For a bully rid^e. 
Didn't Heaven's wisdom 
Fill the world with joys. 
When it gave us laughter. 
And wagons full o' boys? 



At 3^n^9^'B MUl 

Wish of wishes, when I'm wishin', 

Takes me hack, and always will, 
Back to boyhood days and fishin', 

In the creek at Hodge's mill. 
Battered can with bait a-squirmin', 

Willow pole and hook and line — 
Never since has sage or sermon 

Taught me anything so fine. 

Ripplin' little stream a-windin', 

Merrily from ridge to ridge; 
Wand'rin'-lik,e, yet always findin' 

Hodge's dam and Hodge's bridge. 
Always coolest, always clearest. 

As it swirled and danced and gleamed- 
Like a picture of the dearest 

Dream that youth has ever dreamed. 

Moment's wait, with heart a-throbbin', 

Scarce a breath, then, Glory be!. 
Jolly cork goes bobbin', bobbin' — 

Joy of joys, come share with me! 
Swish and tug with pole a-bendin' — 

Win or lose, succeed or fail — 
Flash of fire, then, high ascendin' 

Leaps a shinin' silver-tail. 

What is wealth, if wealth I'd gather. 

What is fame, if fame were mine? 
Million times and more I'd rather 

Have my pole and hook and line. 
Wish of wishes, when I'm wishin', 

Takes me back, and always will, 
Back to boyhood days and fishin', 

In the creek at Hodge's mill. 



Almost QIauglit 



Many seasons had passed, since he'd ven- 
tured a cast 
Where the bass and the trout nimbly 
scamper; 
And the lure of the streams had invadea 
his dreams. 
Like the smiles of a frivolous vamper; 
And 'tis human to fall so he answered the 
call, 
For he needed a bit of an airing; 
And with many a boast he deserted his post, 
To indulge in some gorgeous preparing. 

From the pictured inside of a fishermen's 
guide 
He s,elected much paraphernalia; 
One or two nimrod suits and a cap and 
some boots, 
And an ai-mful of camping regalia. 
And he spent quite a wad for a brass- 
mounted rod, 
And a dozen odd flies, bright and tinny; 
And he paddled his boat into regions remote 
In his quest of the phantom-tailed finny. 

And we had to admit by the cost of his kit 

And the size of his hopes and his wishes — 
Not to mention his brags to the jokesters 
and wags — 
That he knew of the haunts of the fishes. 
And in going alone, it was never quite 
known. 
Whether luck was his slave or his master; 
But in due time he came to make good on 
his claim 
Of the world's greatest champion caster. 



As for bass and for trout, we had never a 
doubt, 
These he had, so of course he had caught 
'em; 
And his water-logged kit was his witness 
to-wit, 
When the jokesters and wags said he 
bought 'em 
But a wee lad of nine, with a crude pole 
and line 
And the thrift of a gent and a scholar, 
Winked a villainous wink as he counted his 

chinK 
Ii the' sum of a mud-spattered dollar. 



All Bl}t 3s 

A roaming fever burns my frame — 

I want to exercise my feet; 
Some mystic thing I can't quite nanie, 

Would lure me to its wild retreat. 
The tang of Spring is in my blood, 

I long to part with shoes and socks, 
And wade the soft and oozy mud, 

And hark to bull-frogs, pounding rocks. 

In dreams I sit by brambled brooks — 

In spatter.ed garb, and pants rolled high. 
With fishing-poles and bait and hooks. 

The gladdest soul on ,earth, am I! 
A 'skeeter' nips me on the nose, 

A hornet makes m^e dodge and duck, 
I feel a thorn between my toes, 

And seemingly I'm out of luck. 

But, my, oh my, such petty ills 

But emphasize th,e joy of things; 
For what are thorns and skeeter-bills 

When Nature strikes her harp and sings; 
While skies are bright or flaked with clouds. 

And wood and field match colors gay. 
And beauty comes so swift it crowds 

All petty ailments worlds away! 

When meadow-lark and thrush beguile 

A man to tramp the whole day long, 
Man finds the pleasure well worth while. 

With every flash and thrill and song. 
For never was the sweetest dream 

Of saint or fairy, child or elf, 
So lovely as the faintest gleam 

Of Nature, as she is, herself. 



An K0ur nf SUbh 

When Lucy Ann O'Lee and I 

Go tramping through the wood, 
Then does my heait beat double high 

And life seem thrice as good. 
Wh,en youth and beauty hear the call 

Of woodland's luring elves, 
And oaks and maples towering tall, 

Half hide us to ourselves. 

In gingham gown of homespun style, 

And checker^ed apron, too. 
With doubled-dimpled, roguish smile, 

And eyes of mischief -blue ; 
And dainty bonnet lined with curls, 

Or loos,ely swung and free — 
My soul! Of all the pretty girls 

Is Lucy Ann O'Lee! 

Her touch, so like the sunbeam's beam, 

Makes all the wood rejoice; 
The music of the pebbled stream 

Is like her laughing voice. 
And no for-g|et-not forgets 

The charm her footsteps bring. 
And blue-bells come, and violets. 

And how the birds do sing! 

And to complete an hour of bliss — 

Of swe;etest bliss to me — 
I dare to theft myself one kiss 

From Lucy Ann O'Lee. 
Then does my heart beat doubl,e high. 

And life seem thrice as good, 
When Lucy Ann O' Lee and I 

Go tramping through the wood. 



iHarrtag^fi 



Marriages are jolly things, 

If we but understand 'em. 
It seems that love's enchantment brings 

The wish to travel tandem. 
That two can live as cheap as one 

Implies a golden glory; 
But just how such a thing is done, 

Is quite another story. 

But every Jack must have his Jill, 

And every Kate her Jerry; 
So one and one are on,e until, 

Gadzooks! There's one to carry, 
For into loveland all their own. 

Behold! There comes the baby; 
And by and by the sum has grown 

To six or s,even, maybe. 

Then Jerry puts on hand-me-downs. 

Though he regrets to spring 'em; 
And Kate forsakes her party gowns. 

For calico and gingham. 
And when the road where jinxes dwell, 

Is rather rough and hilly, 
Then mamma's cloak warms little Nell, 

And papa's pants fit Willie. 

Though mother works from sun to sun, 

While father loafs and fishes; 
Though Willie goes to have some fun. 

While Kate must wash the dishes; 
Though unwed ride in carriages, 

While wed ones w^alk, by golly; 
Who doesn't say that marriages 

Are more sublime than folly? 



My neighbor Jones has funny ways; 

He differs much from me. 
I've nev,er known in all my days, 

So queer a gent as he. 
For I am of the common herd, 

And sanely think and act; 
While Jones does things so blamed absurd, 

I doubt his mind, in fact. 

I take no chances on myself, 

With ague, cold and cough; 
No ills shall keep me on the shelf 

If I can chase them off. 
And so my daily fare includes 

A score of safety-firsts; 
Like rnedicines and diet-foods 

And things for slaking thirsts. 

A porous-plaster warms my chest. 

Against the wintry whiz; 
I've got a buckeye in my vest 

To cure the 'rheumatiz' 
I'm swathed in medicated f^elt, 

To keep lumbago out. 
And always wear a snake-skin belt. 

Or else I'd die, no doubt. 

But Jones just goes and comes and go^es, 

Year in, year out, the same; 
Ignoring w^eather, food and clothes. 

And chills that shake his frame. 
He 'puts 'em on' and 'takes 'em off', 

Just daring Old Man Grimm; 
And though I never hear him cough 

It's just fool luck with him. 



®0 ^mt n Ifxmxii 

Oh what it means to have a fri^encl, 

A friendly friend who feels and cares; 
One who is faithful to the end, 

Whose sweetnjess lasts, whose friendship 
wears ! 
A friend who radiates good cheer — 

The homely kind, from me to you — 
Who makes the sunb|eams reappear. 

When storm-clouds come, as come they do. 

A friend whose turn of mortal mind. 

Runs not to glamor, greed and pelf; 
Whose friendship is the larger kind. 

Which lifts a man above himself. 
Whose presence somehow always smooths 

The rugged roughness of the trail; 
Whose gentle touch consoles and soothes. 

When tears and heart-aclies would prevail. 

A friend who lets no rumors bar 

His friendly grasp and kindly pat; 
A friend who knows us as we are 

And loves us all the more for that. 
No imitation sort of love, 

But genuine and pure and good; 
Who holds no selfishness above 

True friendship's golden brotherhood. 

A fri,end whose friendship never gets 

Beyond the humble things of life; 
The kind who never once forgets 

The human side of clash and strife. 
Who never fails to comprehend, 

With open heart and open mind; 
Oh, what it means to have a friend, 

Whose friendship is the noble kind! 



So a oivn 

Grand old elm I bring you greetings, 

Bring you messages of love — 
You who hear the lost-lamb's bleatings, 

And the larks' song and the dove. 
Worthy friend, so fine and splendid. 

Would that I were of your clan; 
To be gratefully commended, 

In the h^earts of beast and man. 

Oh the times good chums have chatted 

In your cool and restful shade; 
Oh the storms that you've combatted, 

Strong in faith and unafraid! 
Through the Winter's helter-skelter — 

Through the Summ,er's burning heat. 
Oh the hosts that love your shelter. 

Find your comfort, pure and sweet. 

Though the feebleness of science 

Marks you merely as a tr|ee. 
Noble Emperor of giants, 

You're the Soul of Truth to me. 
For I feel your silent nearness, 

And from God and Glory's own 
Comes a voice of perfect cl|eamess. 

And I know I'm not alone. 

You are serving well, old fellow, 

And the hosts exhalt you, too. 
So when you are seer and yellow, 

And the world gO|es back on you, 
You can meet the old grim reaper. 

Knowing w^ell you've done your part; 
And the Great Kind Knowing Keeper 

Will re-plant you in His heart. 



Just to get a lovely l^etter, 

From a good and faithful friend — 
What of all that's good is better 

For the mind to comprehend? 
When a dullness hovers round you, 

When your fancies wayward drift, 
And the blues have sort of downed you, 

And you need a friendly lift. 

Feeling sad and somewhat lonely. 

Then, oh joy, the letter comes; 
All for you and for you only, 

Scribblied in the scraw^l of chums! 
Words that hug you and caress you, 

Insofar as words can do; 
With a warm, sincere 'God bless you/ 

Which inspires and comforts, too. 

Just a heart-to-heart revealing 

Of a friendship all worth while. 
Till the grand and glorious feeling. 

Fairly makes the pages smile; 
And you shake with wholesome laughter. 

At some merry quip or jest; 
\Vhil,e the good that lingers after, 

Knocks the old blues galley west. 

How it sets the heart-songs going. 

Lets the spirit-anthems roll; 
Starts the candle-lights to glowing. 

In the temple of the soul; 
Makes tlie old world brighter, better. 

Saner, sw^eeter, end to end; 
Just to get a lovely letter. 

From a good and faithful friend. 



Down winding roads at early morn — 

Past ripened hay and rustling corn, 

And cottag^es and orchards, too, 

And distant meadows, gemmed with dew — 

\yhile dotting, here and there, a grove 

Of elms and cottonwoods where rove 

A herd of fattened thoroughbrjeds — 

The kings and queens of quadrupeds. 

Across the bridge that spans a brook 
So glassy-like that one may look 
Into its depths of crystal-cool 
And make a mirror of the pool. 
And see the world all dowii-sid,e-up — 
Until a jolly, half-grown pup, 
Comes splashing in with playful vim. 
Suggesting that it's time to swim. 

Oh, such a spot! Unload the truck. 

Take out the hammocks and the chuck, 

The salads and the lemonade, 

And let's pitch camp in yonder shade. 

Delightful as a nimrod's dream, 

The cool, sweet breath of woods and 

stream — 
A fish-pole and a pipe for me, 
Out on the snag of that old tree. 

On every side, at every turn. 

Quite .everywhere I look, I learn 

A lesson far too big for words — 

The flowers, the trees, the sky, the birds — 

Mere touches of the cosmic throng. 

All blending into one grand song! 

The sermons of th,e stones, for mine — 

Dame Nature is, to me. Divine! 



I guess that I'm supposed to be 

The little gauze-winged fairy — 
Of late I'm just about as free 

As some poor cage canary. 
ThoS|e few small privileges I had, 

The c,ensors have discarded, 
They say I'm wicked, bold and bad. 

And must be watched and guarded. 

I used to wear the gown I chose, 

For comfort, style and beauty; 
But now the censors plan my clothes — 

'Tis their one solemn duty. 
And just like any regular saint 

Is in for frequent shockings. 
Why, I'm supposed to scream and faint 

When someone mentions stockings. 

I had a one-piece bathing-suit 

I made it two, to pleaS|e 'em. 
And sewed some ruffles on, to boot, 

So duck-fits wouldn't sieze 'em. 
To soothe their every mood and whim, 

I've spent a handsome dollar; 
And now, they tell me when I swim. 

To add my spats and collar. 

I once could dance with Bill and Pete, 

In scorn, I must refuse 'em — 
The censors now control my feet. 

They merely let me uSje 'em. 
And if I'd speak one word of slang. 

Or hum a jazz-like ditty. 
The world would blow up with a bang, 

And great would be the pity. 



tn SagB Ar? ^at 



When days are hot and folks perspire, 

And half the earth is dipped in fire, 

And chickens gasp and cattle flop. 

And dogs go mad and horses drop, 

And people stagger in the street, 

And men go crazy with the heat, 

And even little kiddies ciy. 

And everything is powder-dry — 

Then father mopes around the shack, 

And fears his throat will warp and crack 

And kicks the cat and scolds the dog. 

And spills a shocking monolog 

But isn't saying half he thinks. 

And drinks and drinks and drinks and 

drinks. 
And moans and groans and grieves and 

howls. 
And blows and puffs and pants and growls, 
And then he'll fuss and stew and fret. 
And fan and fan and mop and sweat, 
And take a nap and grunt and snore — 
And, having nam,ed his faults, a score. 
So much for father, let him buzz. 
And now let's see what mother does. 
She washes, irons and mops and scrubs 
And sweeps and dusts and shines and rubs 
And cooks and bakes and mends and sews. 
And digs and plants and rakes and hoes, 
Gets breakfast for the sleepy-heads, 
And finds their clothes and makes their beds, 
And washes dishes all alone, 
And minds the door-bell and the phone, 
And fixes windows when it rains, 
And soothes the kiddies aches and pains 
All these she does and does 'em well, 
When days are hot as Bille L. 
Yet we expect her all the while. 
To smile and smile and smile and smile. 



5Il]p g'lurrtPBl Sufi 



Lily of the valley 
precious little vagrant bud, 

Growing in the alley 
'tween the ash-heap and the mud; 

Widely coiTesponding 
to their fragrance and their tint, 

You go vagabonding 
with the plantain and the mint. 

Yonder in the garden 
poppies vie with roses fair — 

Dainty Dolly Varden 
stoops and whispers to them there. 

Tlien as if by magic, 
straight to you her passion goes; 

Which seems rather tragic 
for the poppy and the rose. 

Never has a Princess 
of the olden times or new. 

Offered to convince us 
that her heart is not for you. 

Never liV|ed a Goddess 
but would pluck your slender stem. 

For you'd grace her bodice 
like a jeweled diadem. 

Little folks can scent you 
in a hundred kinds of bloom; 

Big folks they present ypu 
to dispel a sick friend's gloom. 

Growing in the alley 
't^^'een the ash-heap and the mud, 

Lily of the valley 
vou're a whole world's sweetest bud. 



3'm 3at 3t 

Though some folks do not care for Spring, 

I find it most delightful; 
For always, when we hate a thing. 

That thing becomes more frightful. 
So when I greet each bird and blade, 

With ears and eyes of wonder, 
It somehow makes me less afraid 

Of lightning's crash and thunder. 

And some folks fear the Summer's heat, 

When days are long and torrid; 
And thus acknowledge their defeat. 

By something fierce and horrid. 
For me, I greet the blazing sky 

In friendship, true and tender; 
And watch the corn grow house-top high. 

And marvel at its splendor. 

And some folks fear when Autumn comes — 

For me I find it jolly; 
I never sit and tw^irl my thumbs. 

In muses melancholy. 
And while they hear the night-birds scold, 

I'm hearing bob-white whistle. 
Out there among the marigold, 

The cat-tails and the thistle. 

And some folks fear the Winter's blast — 

I find it most enthusing; 
And tales of dreadful blizzards past, 

To me are real amusing. 
The world must seem all out of gear, 

For folks whose fears abhor it; 
And so, at any time of year, 

Whatever comes, I'm for it. 



Bptin^ aiib Autumn 

When the sky is bright and sunny, 

And the air is soft and warm; 
And the buds are rich with honey, 

And the trees are taking form; 
When the songsters, gay of feather, 

Swell their throats and sing and sing; 
Gladness counts them altogether, 

And behold, 'tis Spring, 'tis Spring! 

When my heart was light with fancy, 

And my cheek was smooth and fair; 
And the world was all romancy — 

Mirth and music everywhere; 
When the whistled-tunes of childhood 

Made the echoes ring and ring. 
Like a Pan-pipe in the wildwood; 

Then indeed, 'twas Spring, 'twas Spring! 

When the sky grows dull and leaden 

And the breeze becomes a gale; 
When the buds and blossoms deaden, 

And the winged-fleets southward sail; 
When the frost forbids the heather, 

And there comes a harsher clime; 
Fancy pieces them together, 

And I know 'tis autumntime! 

Autumn time! A life's October! 

And my heart is heavy now; 
And a furrow, set and sober, 

Marks my adolescent brow; 
And to match the ways I've w.ended. 

To the heights I hoped to climb; 
All too soon the trail is ended, 

In the glow of autumntime! 



sin u ffinuf bui 

Little rosebud, pur|e and tender! 

Perfect joy of shade and hue! 
Rainbow tint and sunset splendor, 

Dare not meet and match with you. 
Tiny? Yes, but, gracious, glory! 

Big things hardly seem worth while; 
When you tell your sweet, glad story; 

And you lift your face, and smile! 

Sorrow lurks, and ofttimes settles 

Round this heart of human clay; 
Then you come, with sW|eet-lipped petals, 

And you kiss my tears away. 
And as something fine compels me 

To be gladdened by your charm; 
So your fairy-fragrance tells me, 

I must bring to you no harm. 

Mom rev,eals you up at dawning — 

Brilliant birds, your praises sing; 
While I, sleepily, and yawning, 

Dumbly wend a-wandering. 
Noonday sunbeams love you dearly; 

Twilight brings you pearls of dew; 
Even shadows speak sincerely. 

When they fall, enfolding you. 

Little rosebud, won't you teach me 

How to speak your magic tongue; 
So that when by-gones beS|eech me, 

I, in thoughts, may yet keep young? 
Then, in roseland, 'way-off yonder. 

Somewhere, with the favored f|ew; 
Let me, there, forever wander. 

Little rosebud, just with you. 



A Innk 

The very world seems verdure-clad; 

A spring-like freshness tints the lea; 
My life is full and truly glad, 

With sweet and wholesome ecstasy. 
The sunny slope, the giant elm, 

The rustic bridge, the lisping brook, 
Invite me to their mystic realm — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

The nightingale unfolds its art, 

And so inspires me when it sings, 
It tunes a Pan-pipe in my heart, 

Or else a lute of silV|ery strings. 
A.nd I could warble all day long, 

Unbound by tutor's hook and crook — 
In gay adlibitum of song — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

From frozen straits to tropic lands, 

I plough the waves of plunging seas; 
1 view the isles where tribal bands. 

Were said to slay their enemies. 
I camp in nature's idly-wild, 

With furs to hunt and fins to hook. 
Years fall from me and I'm a child — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

And when the night stars' flash is shown, 

Like fire-flies of the far-above; 
Dame Moon comes forth to chaperone 

Young ardents in the lure of love. 
And sprites and S|eraphs dance about. 

And charm is everywhere I look. 
I'm mystified within and out — 

I have a friend — , a book. 



A garden nymph with tiny wand, 

Now turns a thistle to a rose; 
By magic of tlT,e golden bond, 

Of make-belieV|e and just-suppose. 
And while a fairy and an elf 

Are spooning in their wooded nook, 
I tura romanticist, myself — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

I hear the Alpine yodeler's song, 

As though in Tyrol's heights I climb; 
Where joys re-echo sweet and long. 

Mid mountain-majesty, sublime. 
A-winding up the cliff-side st|eep. 

With mountain-staff and shepherd's 
crook, 
I watch a herdsman and his sheep — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

T roam through castles fine and old. 

With marble stairs and stately walls; 
I gaze on chaos, gray of mould. 

With tumbled spir,es and ruined w^alls. 
Mute epitaphs of long-gone age, 

When earth convulsed and mountains 
shook; 
As pen reveals them, page by pag|e — 

I have a friend — , a book. 

And musing in the retrospect 

Of sacred chant and revel song. 
Where priests have roamed and pilgi'ims 
trekked, 

I'm filled and chamied the whole way 
long. 
And as through wonderland I trod, 

To think, and feel, and hear, and look, 
I marvel at the things of God — 

I have a friend — , a book. 



M^ &tar-C6trl 



Vm in love with a beautiful maiden, 

Who resides in a far-away land; 
Where the cliffs and the castles are lad,en, 

With the works of a masterful hand. 
In her garden of wine-tinted roses, 

Like the maids of Arcadian scenes, 
She reclines in some wonderful poses. 

And her grace is the envy of queens. 

She has charms by the score to endear her; 

And her throne in my heart is complete. 
So in day-dreams I'm hovering near her; 

And I lay all my world at her feet. 
And when twilight's soft shadows are fall- 
ing, 

Then my eyes search the vastness above; 
Where the magic of romance is calling, 

From the land of the lady I lov,e. 

Of ten-times she goes tripping off yonder; 

And the moon-man informs me with glee, 
Of a lover of whom she is fonder. 

Is the moon-ma.n just jollying me? 
Still I know if I search I shall find her, 

Where the sparkle-lights glimmer and 
glow; 
So I pack up and trail off behind her, 

For I'm taking no chances, you know. 

Oh this nymph of the night is my star-girl, 

So bewitching and dreamy and d,ear; 
She's my ever-so-near-yet-so-far-girl; 

And the whole world adores her, I fear. 
So when night com|es I call on- this Venus; 

And with passion I feiwently pray, 
That no cloudlet shall drift in between us; 

And carry my star -girl away. 



Yo, ho! for Hallowe'ening, 
In all its prankish meaning — 
Where mischief makers full of fun, 
Defy the salt and pepper gun, 
And keep old fogeys on the run, 
By pelf and plunder gleaning. 

Yo, ho! for pun'kin faces, 
That peer from spooky places — 
Where every fence and hitching-post 
Conceals a creepy grinning ghost; 
Or scares us half to death, almost. 
As 'round the house it chases. 

Yo, ho! for gates and fences. 
As soon as night commences — 
But morning finds them in the well. 
Or over where the neighbors dwell, 
Or dangling from the school-house bell, 
To shock our modest senses. 

Yo, ho! I'll let 'em plunder. 
And tear my shack asunder — 
I can't forget — when imp and elf 
Bombard my door with loot and pelf— 
That I once was a kid myself, 
And fond of raising thunder. 



There are some folks who sob and gri|eve, 
To seje the good old Summer leave; 
And splash a cloud of salty tears 
At time's eternal tread of years. 
And so I ris,e and call a strike 
On things the multitudes dislike; 
And cut their sorrows half in half 
With fifty hints on how to laugh. 

"The melancholy days have 'came' " 
One sobster weeps and trys to blame 
Old Mother Nature for his ills 
And then h,e misses forty thrills. 
And as he counts his pains and aches 
I feed my face on buckwheat cakes, 
And sausages and ham and eggs 
And shanghai chicken's yellow-legs. 

Now just suppose the Lord would say 
That pessimists could have th^eir way, 
And frowns would take the place of smiles, 
And troubles come in heaps and piles; 
And everybody have the blues 
Till clammy thought would fairly ooze 
Around the d.ear old place called home — 
But why allow such tales to roam? 

I'm learning that it doesn't help, 
And so I let the grievers yelp; 
And every time I hear them sigh, 
I stuff myself with pun'kin pie, 
And apple-tarts and jelly-cake; 
And if I get a chance I'll take . 
Some griever's girl out there to spoon 
Beneath a big fat harvest moon. 



I love to dream the golden dreams 

Of by-gone days and yesterwhiles, 
Along the sun and shadow streams, 

That wind through memory's mystic isles. 
The sweet green fields, the flowers in bud. 

Like youth itself, the Spring of life, 
Where showers and sunbeams bring a flood 

Of freshness, free from sordid strife. 

The boyhood dreams when hopes are high 

And hearts in lively rhythm beat; 
The dreams of do but never die — 

What dreams of man are half so sweet? 
The dreams that hear adventure call, 

And rising, bravely answer "here", 
And storm and scale the highest wall 

In make-believe's colossal sphere. 

The dreams of wooden-dagger days, 

When fierce imaginary foes 
Lurk somewhere in the gloomy haze 

Where only youthful courage goes. 
And secret trails to secret caves. 

Among the rocks of pictured thought 
Where roams a band of hero-knaves, 

And many a battle, grim, is fought. 

Well may such hours of super thrills 

Defy the stroke of lowly pen; 
Yet while a Gracious Giver wills. 

Oft may those hours be lived again. 
Away with all the sordid schemes 

That future wealth or fame beguiles. 
And let me dream the golden dreams 

Of by-gone days and yesterwhiles. 



ilt| Staar 



You may sing if you wish of the flowers you 
love best — 
There are many and pretty ones, too, 
In this garden of gardens, so wondrously 
blest— 
And I'll join in the chorus with you. 
Yes I'll gladly give voice in a concert of 
praise, 
To each dear little budlet that grows; 
But the swjeetheart of flowers that I'll sing 
all my days, 
Is the wild little, mild little rose. 

Oh the daisies may dance in the Summer's 
glad sun, 
To tinkle of fairyland rhyme; 
And the lili,es and lilacs, a joy every-one. 
Breathe the charm of enchantment, sub- 
lime. 
And the beauties that bloom in the wood- 
land's wild air. 
All inspire loyely songs, I agree; 
But the wild ros.e, the mild rose, so tender 
and fair, 
Is the one, sweetest blossom to me. 

You may sing if you wish of the virtu,es 
you claim, 
For your favorite wherever it grows; 
But no colorful blending of tones you can 
name. 
Would begin to compare with my rose. 
When it wakes to the sun, from its dreams 
in the dew. 
With a fragrance of rareness, divine. 
There is joy to my soul, in the heavenly hue, 
Of this wild rose, this mild rose of mine. 



Such a rose, such a joy, such a vision, ah 
yes. 
Like the face in a true-lover's dream 
When her cheeks blush aglow to the wind's 
soft caress, 
And her smiles sweetly, luringly beam! 
Then, behold! I awake, and enraptured I 
gaze, 
In the light of a dream, just come true; 
For the sweetheait of flowers that I'll love 
all my days. 
Is a make-believe ros,e. That's you! 



01ji» SntuQ nf Silitugfi 

'Tis the doing of things that can never be 

done, 
Which keeps this old world on the go. 
'Tis the winning of fights not supposed to 

be won, 
From a nearly invincible foe. 
'Tis the bending of backs to the rolling of 

stones, 
Which the cinics are leaving unturned; 
And the bruising of hands and the aching 

of bones, 
For the fun of a tribute well earned. 

'Tis tlie wishing for things that are thous- 
ands of miles 

From the range of immediate reach. 

*Tis the holding to hopes through a tumult 
of trials. 

With the stick-to-it cling of the leech; 

And no fear of the folly of mystic oc\:ults. 

And no worry of 'how' or of 'when', 

'Tis the confidence born of desire for results; 

And the trying again, and again. 

'Tis the frequent communion with fanciful 
things 

Where the wildest imagin'ries are, 

'Tis the fitting of dreamy ideals, with wings, 

For the flying to regions afar. 

And when strength counts for most and the 
strain is intense, 

And there's only one drink in the cup; 

'Tis the mingling of genius with good, com- 
mon sense 

And of wisdom with *never-give-up.' 



'Tis believing in things that are most un- 

believed, 
And with scarce understanding them, too. 
'Tis the breaking of dawn on the triumphs 

achieved, 
When the dream of the dreamer comes 

true. 
For the world would revert to its primitive 

night. 
And with never a torch, not a one; 
Were it not for the doing, with mind and 

with might. 
Of the things that can never be done. 



To Mothers of Men of the A. E. F. 

Mothers are with us today, God be praised 
For sweetening the cups of a world, bitter crazed. 
Mothers, dear mothers, with wint^er touched hair. 
And summer-tressed mothers, all gracious and 
fair. 
Mothers, good mothers, whom, needless to say, 
Are thinking of someone, in lands far away. 
Som,eone, a son, in the khaki, or blue — 
"Her boy," now a man, and a man, through and 
through. 



Mothers of babes who were born in a hut, 
And pinched by the narrows of poverty's rut — 

Mothers of boys from a home fit for kings. 

And reared in the lap of luxurious things, 
Mothers of lads from the great middle mass. 
And trained by the trials of the common herd 
class — 

Mothers, true mothers, whose prayers ar|e sin- 
cere — 

Who know how to mingle a smile with a tear. 



Mothers of youths, from the freedom of farms. 
Who come, doubl,e quick, at the clatter of arms — 

Mothers of boys from the crowds -of the street. 

Impatient to drill by the drum's lusty beat. 
Mothers of sons, leaving college perhaps — 
Impulsive, athletic, and vigorous chaps — 

And m,en from the work-shops, the mills and the 
mines. 

To melt in the moulding of liberry lines. 



Mothers of youths who are frail, as to brawn, 
Yet strong in the courage of 'try' and 'keep on'— 
Miothers of men, unsurpassed in their strength, 
Who choose not a task, by its danger or length. 
Mothers of men who are eager to roam. 
Yet never unmindful of loved ones at home — 
Who, called to the colors, were keen to respond 
For war, at the ends of the earth, or beyond. 

Mothers of soldiers not born for defeat; 

Of men who can swallow the bitter, as sweet — 
Of heroes who show not a tremor of eye. 
When meeting a duty to do, or to die. 

Mothers of men on the big, briny blue 

And facing the fury of battle-fire too— 
And mothers, brave mothers, of men, gently laid 
To sleep in the camps of the silent brigade. 

Legions of mothers, yet all of one mind- 
To Glorify God, in the hearts of mankind. 

Giving the world what the world sorely needs— 
The love and the life that inspires noble deeds- 
Heaven's best gift to the gloom-shadowed sphere- 
Christ candle-rays, beaming comfort and cheer- 
Mothers, God bless 'em, and bl^ess 'em again- 
The world would collapse without mothers of 
men. 



LIbHAHY Ul- UUNLiHtbb 



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